


Let Lips Do What Hands Do

by cuddles



Series: I Don't Even Like You [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddles/pseuds/cuddles
Summary: Actually Aziraphale does kind of like Crowley.A sequel to "A Secret Told to the Mouth Instead of the Ear" -- more fic for a show that's not even out yet. ;)





	Let Lips Do What Hands Do

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Vietnamese by mellowyellow171: https://mellowyellow171.wordpress.com/2019/06/23/oneshot-good-omens-let-lips-do-what-hands-do/

When it was all over, they went home.

Which is to say, they went back to London in the jeep Crowley had either stolen or borrowed, depending upon your point of view, from the airbase. They had fallen quiet for a while, letting the strains of Handel's Water Music wash over them, when Aziraphale spoke up.

"So with my bookshop being ... er ... out of commission ..." He couldn't bring himself to say _burned down_.

Crowley gave a sympathetic wince, though keeping his eyes on the road. His driving was less reckless than usual this evening, Aziraphale noticed. Perhaps it was the effect of the music.

"... I seem to be rather at loose ends," he finished. "I mean, under ordinary circumstances I would pass the night with a good book and a cup of cocoa, but --"

"You can stop at my place," Crowley interrupted.

"Oh," said Aziraphale, who hadn't realised he'd been angling for an invitation, and didn't know what to do with it now that he had it. "Oh, well, if it isn't too much bother ..."

"I'm just going to sleep." Crowley shrugged, hands splaying on the steering wheel. "You can do what you want. Maybe develop a taste for Ian Fleming novels? Or telly, even?"

Aziraphale found himself smiling. "Thank you, my dear." He wondered what they would do the next day, and found he didn't really want to think about it. The prospect of spending the night in Crowley's flat was both uncomfortable and appealing.

The music ended softly, sweetly just as they got to Mayfair. A few seconds later Crowley slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road. The tires screeched. The jeep lurched to a halt. Aziraphale was clutching his seat with both hands, wondering if this proved that the music really was responsible for Crowley's sedate driving, when he noticed Crowley had gone pale.

"Look," the demon said, and pointed.

It was the Bentley. The sleek black car was parked outside Crowley's flat, looking as though it had never left.

Crowley leapt out of the jeep without closing the door. Aziraphale followed, gaping. He watched as Crowley touched the Bentley hesitantly at first, and then ran his hands lovingly over the shiny bonnet.

Then Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale could see they had both had the same thought. "We've got to go to Soho," Aziraphale said hoarsely.

Crowley flashed the biggest grin Aziraphale had ever seen on his face. "Get in."

It was a short drive. Neither of them spoke on the way. Crowley was probably too overwhelmed by the return of his beloved car to have anything to say. When they came within sight of the bookshop, Aziraphale's hand shot out and clutched Crowley's arm without meaning to.

"It's there!"

Crowley pulled up, and Aziraphale bolted out of the car and actually ran (something he rarely did) to the familiar door. No smoke. No fire. Not so much as a scorch mark.

Inside, he walked slowly through the shop, running a hand over each shelf. He puzzled over some new volumes he didn't recognise -- children's books, perhaps? He would look through them later -- but his prized possessions were all here, exactly where they ought to be.

Crowley was waiting just inside the door. Aziraphale hurried back to him. "It's as though none of it ever happened," he was saying joyfully, and then he caught sight of Crowley's face.

Crowley was smiling, but it was a lopsided smile. Something about it made Aziraphale remember that he was not, after all, going back to Crowley's flat, because he no longer had any reason to. He was going to stay here and Crowley was going to go home and each of them would spend the night in his own comfortable, solitary fashion. The way they always did. As though none of it had ever happened.

And there was really no reason for them to meet again, either. The Apocalypse they had been working to prevent for the past eleven years had been cancelled. No more feeding the ducks, no more meeting at concerts and galleries, no more lunches at the Ritz.

He felt an ache in his chest.

"Well, I guess I should --" Crowley started.

"Would you care for a --" Aziraphale said at the same time.

They stopped. "You first," said Crowley.

"Er." Aziraphale had been about to say something about wine, but they had just finished a bottle together at the airbase, and it seemed ridiculous to offer Crowley another, and why should Crowley want to stay here, anyway? The demon was probably longing for a good night's sleep. "Never mind. I mean -- That is --" Aziraphale couldn't recall the last time he'd been quite so at a loss for words.

They were standing rather close together now. Aziraphale swallowed and took a tiny step forward. "Crowley?"

He couldn't see Crowley's eyes. It bothered him now more than usual. He reached up and carefully pulled the sunglasses off his friend's face.

Crowley's eyes fixed upon his.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, leaned forward, and kissed him.

The closeness of Crowley's face was overwhelming. So was the gentleness in his touch as he took the sunglasses from Aziraphale's hands and wrapped his arms around his waist. When had Crowley ever been so gentle?

When Aziraphale broke the kiss, he was suddenly too shy for eye contact. He pulled Crowley closer and tucked his face into the crook of his neck. Being in Crowley's arms felt *right* in a way nothing else ever had. It took some time for Aziraphale's racing heart to slow to a more reasonable pace. Crowley seemed to have all the time in the world.

Aziraphale was thinking hard. He didn't think he could stay at Crowley's flat tonight, or invite Crowley to stay here. This thing between them was too delicate, too new, and he needed badly to be alone for a few hours to mull it over. Tomorrow -- tomorrow, he thought, he would be ready.

He drew back just enough to look Crowley in the face. Crowley's face looked naked without his sunglasses -- vulnerable. His eyes were slightly dilated.

"Dearest," Aziraphale began tentatively, and Crowley smiled -- not like a snake at all, unless it were a snake who has just had the best news of his life.

"Dearest," Aziraphale said, "would you like to meet tomorrow in St. James's Park?"

**Author's Note:**

> I look forward to seeing this get thoroughly jossed by the ending of the show, which is supposed to be totally different from the book! Oh well.


End file.
